


Bad Romance

by Carmexgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Mention of past abuse (not explicit), Mutual Pining, Rating: M, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve is a little shit, Terrible romance cliches, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9813155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmexgirl/pseuds/Carmexgirl
Summary: Mysterious gay romance author S.R. Grant is secretly gracing Barnes’ Bookstore with his presence and signing his own work.  Luckily store owner Bucky is on the case, helpfully aided by new and totally-not-hot customer Steve Rogers.





	

Tuesday.  Bucky loves Tuesdays, because that’s when the new delivery comes in and he gets the chance to put everything in order.  He likes this because he has a need for control, and putting books neatly on shelves in the correct places gives him a great sense of satisfaction and calm.  The books aren’t ordered in the traditional way though; they’re in _Bucky’s_ filing system, which means all the good ones get put in the most prominent positions, while the ones Bucky feels are ‘questionable’ languish at the very back of the store in some dank corner.

So Bucky has strong opinions about some books.  So what?  It’s his name above the door; he can do what he wants.

Barnes’ Bookstore.  Two years in the making and now it’s finally doing well.  Really well, in fact.  It’s in the perfect position on the corner of the street, big black sign able to be seen by anyone passing.  The shop itself is quite big; shelves line every wall, he has a small section for children’s books complete with play-mat and tiny seats, a well-stocked classics, plays and poetry section, non-fiction in neat little enclaves covering science, history, geography and others, and the biggest section, fiction, winding through the shop divided into sub categories of Bucky’s choosing.  In the middle, to the left of the counter, stands a large armchair and coffee machine, for when people want to sit and read (without bending the spines), and escape the hustle and bustle for a while.

Bucky’s happily standing on top of his step ladders putting some anthologies in the poetry section, when the door jangles.  He looks over to see the back of a tall man’s blonde head, and watches as he heads for the science fiction section.  He stands there for a while, occasionally pulling out a book and flicking through it, before putting it back on the shelf.  Bucky gets back to his work, screwing his nose up at the ‘modernist’ shelf and wondering when the faded T.S. Eliot volumes will shift so he can replace them with something better.

“Excuse me,” says a deep voice, and Bucky blinks out of his thoughts to stare at the blonde man below.  The guy is obviously tall, and built like he’s been hewn from stone.  His shoulders are broad, and although he’s wearing a hoodie the zip is open, meaning Bucky can make out some muscle definition underneath the grey top he wears _._ He must work out every day. But that’s not even the best thing, because he’s looking up at Bucky and smiling, row of white perfect teeth, blue, blue eyes that crinkle around the edges and blonde hair that’s sort of styled on top of his head and perfectly coiffed.  If Bucky were some sort of romantic sap he’d swear that birds would be singing and the sun would be shining right now.  But he’s decidedly not, and it’s just another grey Tuesday afternoon in a backwater bookstore in Brooklyn with an admittedly hot guy staring up at him.

“Um, hi?” Hot guy says.  “You work here?”

“No,” Bucky replies.  “I just like going into random book stores and climbing ladders to mess with their filing system.”

Hot guy looks slightly confused, so Bucky decides that maybe he shouldn’t inflict his usual grumpy sarcasm on new customers.

“Sorry.  Yes, yes I work here.  How can I help you?” he says as he steps down from the ladder.  Looking up at him now, the guy must be about 6’2.  Bucky can see the aforementioned broad shoulders up close, along with a tiny waist and probably an ass that could crack a walnut.

“Do you have any John Wyndham?” Hot guy asks.

“As in _Day of the Triffids_ John Wyndham?”

“No, the other John Wyndham.”

Bucky ponders this for a moment.  “The _other_ John Wyndham?” He says carefully.

“Yeah,” the guy nods, “Not the _Triffids_ one—can’t stand him.  The one that wrote _Out of the Deeps_.”

He smiles his perfect smile and Bucky’s about to say something when he sees a glint in his eye. “Wait a minu…you’re messing with me, right?”

Guy shrugs his shoulders.  “Yeah, you got me. Sorry.”

“Thought so.”

“I meant the one that wrote _The Kraken Wakes_.”  The guy tries to suppress a laugh and it’s probably the cutest thing Bucky’s heard, if it wasn’t for the fact that this man is clearly a terrible shit.

“Don’t think I don’t know it’s the same book, asshole.”  He doesn’t normally talk to customers like this, but there’s something about this guy that says he can take a joke. Thankfully, the guy barks out a laugh and Bucky can’t help but smile.  “We can order it if you like,” Bucky says, “Or, you could just go to Amazon and get it from there, whatever.”

“No, no,” the guy snickers, again with the megawatt smile, “I’ll order it from here.  You don’t get these types of insults from Amazon.”

“This is true.”  Bucky walks over to the counter to get his iPad, and starts keying in the details.  The guy’s still laughing as Bucky finishes the order.   

“You know I just moved back to the area after some time away,” the guy says, “And I tell you what, it’s so nice to hear someone not taking any shit.”

Bucky shrugs.  “Well, I like to think it’s kinda my motto.  Bucky Barnes: no shit taken and no shits given.”

“It’s a good motto,” the guy nods. 

“And very accurate,” Bucky replies.  “Ok it’ll be here Thursday. I just need a name for the order.”

“Steve Rogers,” he says, “R-o-g-e-r-s.”

“You know,” says Bucky as he types in Steve’s details, “One of the great things about us Brooklyn booksellers is that we have mastered the art of spelling.  It’s really quite something.”

“And great customer service,” Steve laughs.  “It’s good to meet you Bucky.  I hope I’ll be spending more time here.”

_I hope so too_ Bucky thinks as Steve exits the shop, showing that he was indeed right about the walnut-cracking properties of Steve’s ass.

 

***

Wednesday goes by in the blink of an eye, and Thursday sees the guy—Steve’s—book delivered.  Bucky unpacks and sticks a bookmark in it, and is just putting it on the shelf of customer orders behind the counter when he hears a grunt behind him.  He turns around, only to find a middle-aged woman staring at him, holding one of SR Grant’s novels like it’s personally offended her or something.  Which, having had some experience of the type of gay romance novels SR Grant writes, wouldn’t surprise Bucky at all.

“Can I help you?” He plasters on his best smile, getting ready for the whole no-you-can’t-have-a-refund-cos-the-book-was-awful conversation.

“I bought this yesterday,” she begins, lacking the usual clipped tone of the complaining customer, “And I just wanted you to know that someone seems to have scribbled inside it.”

Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise.  He runs a tight ship, and apart from Clint and Natasha who help out on Saturdays and in the run up to Christmas, it’s just Bucky taking care of things so he knows his books are in pristine condition.  The only explanation would be if she’d scribbled in it herself. “I’m real sorry,” he says, “Let me take a look at it.”  He takes the book—SR Grant’s latest—from her.

SR Grant.  One of many romance writers that Bucky has tried to read but just can’t.  It’s not him or his writing per se, more the genre. In Bucky’s bitter and limited experience, romance is a mere fiction that happens only to the few, if at all.  To read about dashing knights sweeping maidens off their feet, or rich, austere businessmen finding love with that one special person, or even in SR Grant’s case, a highly strung and incredibly successful gay banker learning a life lesson and finding love with a guy who owns a failing bakery business…let’s just say there’s a reason Bucky puts them in the ‘Fantasy’ section.

He opens the book and sure enough, there’s a black Sharpie scribble on the title page.  But not any random scribble, it looks like someone has written:  “Enjoy.  SR Grant,” in there.  Bucky looks at the lady, then back to the book, and then back to the lady who raises an eyebrow.  “Is it genuine?” She asks.

Bucky has no idea.  SR Grant from what he knows is pretty mysterious.  Hell, the guy is so pretentious he doesn’t even have a photo of himself on the back cover, just a black and white shot of the back of his head. Who the hell does that? Bucky pulls out his tablet and checks online for any examples of the signature and boom, finds it.  It’s exactly the same.

Which is a mystery, because those books only came in on Tuesday and they definitely weren’t signed then.  There would be a note from the publisher if they were, so he could label them appropriately or give them away as a prize or something.

He looks up from the tablet and smiles at the customer.  “It appears you’ve got yourself the real deal,” he says, turning the tablet with the signature example to show her.  She smiles excitedly.  “Oh my god, I don’t believe it!  This stuff just doesn’t happen to me.”

“Maybe you should buy a lottery ticket or something, keep that luck going,” Bucky says as she exits the shop.  It’s a curious thing.  He has another two copies of _His Love and Longing_ on the shelves, so he walks over to the ‘Fantasy’ section and pulls them out.  Sure enough, both copies are signed ‘SR Grant,’ in the same looping scrawl as before.  But they definitely weren’t before they were put on the shelves.  Which means they were signed afterwards.  Which could only mean…

SR Grant had been in his shop.  And sneakily signed his books.  Without telling anyone.  He’d done a JK Rowling.

But who…

Bucky is pulled out of his thoughts by the jangle of the door, and in walks Steve Rogers.  Hot guy.  Hot Steve Rogers who ordered a book on Tuesday.

“Hey,” he says, flashing his megawatt smile again.  Bucky can’t help but look at him suspiciously, because every new customer is a suspect in this.  And some of the old ones.  Although, Steve has more of a personal trainer-vibe than a romance writer-vibe about him.  And Bucky had watched him the majority of time he was in the shop on Tuesday (because of the megawatt smile, gym-honed body and walnut-cracking ass) so he was pretty sure it wasn’t him.

“Hi.  Steve, isn’t it?” He’s trying to play it cool, because he never forgets a customer.

Steve nods, evidently happy that Bucky has remembered his name.  “Yeah, that’s me.  I ordered a book on Tuesday?” 

“Yeah.  Came in this morning, lemme just…”

Bucky sees Steve’s eyes flick down to the copy of _His Love and Longing_ Steve spots the book in Bucky’s hand.  “Oh, a romance guy?” He says.

Bucky snorts. “God no.  No. Have to keep the customers happy, though.  I try to hide them at the back of the shop where no one can find them, but they still do.”

Steve’s face has an unreadable expression on it, which unsettles Bucky slightly.  Then he laughs, and there’s the smile again.  “Not your thing, then?”

Bucky shakes his head.  “No.  I mean, it’s fine and everything but…come on.  It’s not really rooted in real life, is it?”

Steve quirks an eyebrow.  “How so?”

“Well, look at this.”  Bucky shows him the SR Grant.  “As gay man, I can tell you that this sort of shit totally doesn’t happen in real life.  This sort of thing doesn’t happen for people like me.”

“Really? But that’s so sad.”  Steve looks genuinely disappointed.

“It’s not sad, it just doesn’t happen.  Not like that, anyway. I’ve come to the conclusion that romance is just a fantasy and the quicker we realise this, the quicker we can get on with our lives and stop searching for something that simply doesn’t exist.  I’m all about the escapism, but you’re telling me that,” he turns the book over and reads the burb, “Henry Mitchell, the playboy 3rd Earl of Westchester can only have his promiscuous ways mended by falling in love with the hot bodyguard assigned to protect him?  Like someone who loves anonymous sex that much would give it all up for one man?” Bucky scoffs.

Steve shakes his head, then laughs. “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine.  Twelve roses for Mr Barnes over here.”

Bucky laughs too, but he’s on a role and Steve, well Steve’s easy to talk to.  He opens up the book and starts reading a passage.  “Ok look at this:  _The sun was setting now; dipping low in the sky and covering the field in an almost ethereal glow of golds and reds.  The wind blew softly, the grass rustling as if brought to life by a force unseen.  Henry closed his eyes for a second, breathing in the scents of the earth and for the first time in his life feeling content at just simply being here in this place.  He opened his eyes and looked across at Samuel, staring towards the sun and smiling.  His face was illuminated by the soft golden light, each feature accentuated, his beauty magnified, his inner self reflected on his outer face. In that very moment, Henry was struck by a powerful emotion, one that had his heart thumping in his chest and his hands shaking.  My god, I love him.  I love him._ ”

Bucky shakes his head incredulously and laughs, then laughs louder when he sees Steve smiling.  “I mean, jeez,” Bucky wheezes, “What is with this prose?  This guy thinks he’s Thomas Hardy. Why use one sentence when 12 will do, right?”

“Right,” Steve says.  “Not a fan of over long prose then.  So how would Bucky Barnes write that?”

“Hmmm…I’d probably say:  Henry was really happy at that moment, and then he noticed that Samuel looked totally hot, so they boned on the grass until it got dark.”

Steve barks out a laugh.

“Simple, see.  Uncomplicated.  _Real._ ”

“It’s a good job you’re a bookseller and not a writer, Bucky.  Imagine if they paid by the word.  You’d be broke.”

Bucky nods.  “Broke probably, but more in touch with reality?  Totally.  Anyway, that’s not the issue we’re dealing with today.”

“What’s the issue?”

“The issue is, that I’m pretty sure SR Grant has been coming in here incognito and signing his own books.  Which is a total dick move.”

Steve’s lovely, blue eyes widen.  “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Bucky shows him the book with the signature.  “I looked it up.  It’s genuinely his signature. Which means he’s been sneaking in here and signing them.”

Steve takes the book from Bucky’s hands and examines it.  “But don’t only a few people know what he looks like, though? He might not have been coming in incognito,” he reasons.

“Oh right, suddenly we know all about SR Grant do we, Steve?  Something you wanna tell me?” Bucky raises his eyebrow, and can’t help but snicker when Steve blushes. 

“Hey,” Steve says, “when your last boyfriend was a complete and total asshole and there’s no romantic prospects in your future, you want some escapism now and again.  I’ve read a couple.  I mean, his style is getting a bit stale and he seems to be lacking inspiration in his later books but…they are what they are.” 

There’s a small, bitter edge to Steve’s words, but Bucky is too hung up on the word ‘boyfriend’ in there to really ponder on it.  “I guess so,” he answers.  “Anyway, I need to order some more SR Grants.”

“Why? Thought you didn’t like them.”

“I don’t.  It’s so I can catch the fucker in the act, that’s why.”

And no, he totally isn’t beginning to think that Steve’s laughter at that assertion is the best thing he’s heard in a long while.

 

***

It takes a few weeks before SR Grant’s entire back catalogue—five books in total—is delivered to Barnes’ Bookstore.  In that time, Steve has come in almost every day.  Bucky doesn’t mind this; he just sits in the armchair and reads.  The armchair was originally mainly for the older folks, but it definitely cheers Bucky up when he looks to find Steve sitting in the chair, cardboard cup of coffee in hand, thumbing through _The Return of the Native_ or whatever he’s reading that day.  It’s kind of comforting in a way, and that thought, which comes to Bucky totally unbidden one Tuesday morning, has him all kinds of confused.

The truth is, Bucky’s never been that lucky when it comes to relationships.  He’d joined the army at 18, did basic training and a couple of tours before coming back home emotionally and mentally spent.  A year of therapy and he was able to function as close to normal as he could, and got into a relationship with an older guy who…yeah. Bucky doesn’t want to think about how fucked up that was.  He’d gotten out before things got real nasty but still, it left its scars and apart from a few casual hook ups (because hey, Bucky wasn’t an idiot, he knew some people considered him to be hot), there hadn’t been anything serious.  He’s never had any inclination to want anything to be serious, if he’s honest. 

But Steve, Steve seems a nice guy.  Different.  He gives Bucky as much shit as he gets back in turn, and they’ve struck up a pretty decent friendship.  So if nothing else, Bucky has that.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Bucky asks Steve that same Tuesday.  Because Bucky’s an adult and doesn’t have to acknowledge his feelings if he doesn’t want to.  “I swear, you’re in here every day getting in my way.”

“I have a job,” Steve replies.  “I just have flexible hours.”

Bucky snorts.  “Flexible hours.  Your hours are so flexible they’re practically horizontal.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Steve says, shrugging his shoulders.  “Besides, this place is warm, the coffee’s cheaper than Belle’s across the road, and the company’s ok too, I guess.  When it’s not being a sarcastic little shit.”

_He likes my company_ Bucky thinks, but what he actually says is:  “Who you calling sarcastic? That seat is reserved for paying, _respectful_ customers.”  Bucky hauls a box onto the counter, attacking it with scissors until he can open it and inspect the contents.  The SR Grants have finally arrived, as well as about 12 copies of _The Goldfish Boy_ which will probably need to go in the window.  “Besides, you could at least make yourself useful.”

Steve finishes his coffee and puts down his book.  He stands up, walks to where Bucky is, and gives him a mock salute.  “How can I be of service, skip?” He says, standing rigidly to attention.  Bucky absolutely does not stare at the tight t-shirt he is wearing today.  Or rather, he absolutely does not try to imagine what Steve would look like without said tight t-shirt, perfectly framing his pecs and showing the peaks of his nipples, clinging so tightly to his torso that Bucky can practically see the outline of each individual ab.  Or he can imagine them, at any rate.

He shakes himself out of his reverie, and shows Steve the copies of _The Goldfish Boy_.  “We’ve been sent a few copies of these, which means I need to put them in the window so they’ll shift.  I tend to just stick them on plinths so people can see them, but…I dunno.  New author and all that, they may need a bit more of a display.  Reckon you can think of something creative?”

Steve examines the book.  “Hmmm…the cover’s pretty cool.  Hey, do you have any of those pens that can write on glass?  The stuff that rubs off?”

Bucky thinks for a moment.  “Yeah, I think we do. Why?”

“Cos I think I can copy that design on the window.  That’d get people’s attention, right?”

_Well, yes_ , Bucky thinks.  But it depends how good Steve is at drawing.  “Are you any good at drawing?” He asks tentatively.

Steve nods enthusiastically.  “I’m ok.  I mean, I majored in classical painting at University, and I like to keep my hand in so…” He begins to blush, and Bucky can’t help but think how cute he looks.

“Great!”  Talented as well as handsome.  “I’ll go get the pens, put these SR Grants on the shelf, and then I’ll come and help you.  Ok?”

“Cool,” Steve says, then does another mock salute and turns on his heels, picking up the books in his arms and walking over to the window display.

By the time Bucky has shifted books around to accommodate the newly expanded SR Grant section, he goes to check on Steve.  He takes one look at the window and gasps.

On it is a perfect rendering of _The Goldfish Boy_ ’s cover.  Complete with a myriad of different characters, all faithfully reproduced with astounding accuracy.  Oranges flowing into blues and whites, each face perfectly mirroring the illustrations, but Steve had also added extra parts, more expressions, details.  Just _more_.  “Steve,” Bucky says, wide eyed, “Steve this is…this is _amazing_.”

Steve’s eyes light up, before he rubs the back of his neck and looks down.  “You really think so?”

“Steve, oh my god, yes.  You’re…you’re really good.  How come you don’t do this for a living?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck again and looks up.  “Ah well, you know. I just…fell into other stuff, I guess.  You know how that is.”

Bucky does.  Hell, he never could have imagined he’d be the owner of a bookstore but then, after the army and all that crap with Pierce, he’d seen the vacant store and it was like a lightbulb moment.  He’d had to have it, had to turn it into something ordered and beautiful, a place where he could use his charm on people put also hide in a corner if he wanted.  He remembers the feeling well, like it was something he was destined to do.

“Yeah, I know,” he says to Steve.  He hands him the final book to put on the plinth and their hands touch, just ever so slightly.  He looks at Steve, who takes the book from him and turns away, perching it on the small bookstand. 

Bucky shakes his head, a shiver running down his spine.  He knows this feeling, knows where it can lead too, and he’s not sure he’s ready to deal with that just yet.  But somewhere, in the back of his brain amongst the voices telling him to be cautious, there’s a small dissenting voice telling him that maybe, maybe it’s time to take a chance.

Instead he coughs, taps Steve on the shoulder and says, “I think that deserves a coffee.  On the house,” before standing up and walking away to the coffee machine like the coward he can be.

“Are the SR Grants in place?”  Steve asks as the machine gurgles and pours his coffee into a cup.

“Yep, all there.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now, we wait.”

 

***

Steve’s window display works well.  Too well.  The next few days see Bucky rushed off his feet trying to cope with the increased demand.  Even people who had never set foot inside Barnes’ Bookstore were coming in to check out the display.  A small, jealous flare inside Bucky said they were also coming into check out the hot guy who happened to have painted it but hey, if they buy books too, it can’t be that bad.

Being busy also means he isn’t able to watch the SR Grants as much as he wants, but he figures that the mysterious author probably wouldn’t be up to his tricks in the middle of a busy store when anyone could see him scribbling in the books.  Could he?

Friday morning comes, and Bucky does his usual rounds before opening up, making sure everything is clean, neat and tidy.  This also means clearing drool and sticky fingerprints off the children’s picture books, picking up random pieces of paper in the teen section, and making sure empty coffee cups are all thrown in the trash.  He skirts by the ‘Fantasy’ section, and as he’s about to walk off he notices one of the SR Grants, just standing slightly proud from all the others.  He picks it up carefully, and turns to the title page.  Sure enough, the familiar words:  “Enjoy.  SR Grant,” are there in black Sharpie.  He picks up another: the same.  And another, and another. The final two are unsigned, and when Bucky looks back at the first one he picked up, he can see that the signature is a little more scrawly than usual, as though written in a hurry.  Which means SR Grant had nearly been caught.

_Ha ha.  Nearly got you, you fucker._   Bucky reasons that he’ll come back to finish the job, because his arrogance probably won’t allow him to leave the other two unsigned.  And when he does, Bucky will be waiting for him.

Bucky finishes his rounds and opens up the shop.  It’s about 10am and Bucky’s leaning back on his chair behind the counter when Steve walks in.  “Stop!” He shouts, and then promptly shoots him with a sucker gun, the sucker pinging off a pec and falling to the floor.

“Whoa, whoa,” Steve says, waving his arms.  “Coulda killed me.”

“Yep,” Bucky says, smiling, before shooting him again in the other pec.  He likes watching how it wobbles enticingly on impact. “Gotta protect my stock from marauding hordes.”

Steve nods in that exaggerated way people do when they’re speaking to someone who clearly has issues.  “Riight.  I’m just gonna get a coffee.”

“You’ll be lucky.  We’re out.  There’s more supplies for the machine in the back, but I am not moving from this spot until I catch that fucker in the act.”

Steve rolls his eyes.  “SR Grant?”

“S.R. Fucking.  Grant.  He’s been in my store, he’s signed half his books and obviously got spooked and ran.  Reckon he’s gonna come back and do the others, so I’m just gonna sit here and wait.

“All day?”  Steve tilts his head and looks at Bucky.

Bucky nods.  “All.  Day. I’m not moving from this spot until I find out who he his.”

Steve shrugs his shoulders.  “Ok bud.  But you’re gonna need some help in case those pesky customers come in wanting stuff.”

He’s right, the handsome, logical bastard.  Bucky thinks back to their slight brush of the hands when Steve painted the window display, his bright smile and easy-going manner.  Spending a whole day with Steve wouldn’t be a bad thing at all.

“You wanna…you wanna stay here?” He asks tentatively.  “I mean, only if you don’t have anything else to do.  Like, with your job.”  Which is something Bucky keeps forgetting to ask him about.  He knows what Steve’s favourite food is (pizza), what his favourite colour is (blue) and his mother’s name (Sarah, with an ‘h’), but he still doesn’t know exactly what he does for a living.  Except coming into the shop and annoying Bucky with his smile, and his body and his…everything.

“Nah, I’m good,” Steve smiles.  “I got an appointment 4pm but other than that, I can stay.”

“Awesome,” Bucky says, and fires another shot.  The sucker bounces off Steve’s head and Bucky laughs at his faux-annoyed face.

 

They day passes slowly, but pleasantly.  Steve seems to have a natural way with customers and is quite content to leave Bucky at his post while he moves around the store.  Bucky stares at him when he’s not looking, wondering when Steve became like a part of furniture, so familiar with the shop and Bucky’s weird filing system that he doesn’t even need to ask him where such-and-such a genre is. 

They’re both sitting behind the counter when a man walks in, and Steve immediately stands up and rushes over to him.  “Sam!” He says, giving the man a warm hug.  Bucky sees that this guy, this Sam, is also quite handsome, tall and pretty built.  He surreptitiously checks his own biceps which, while definitely there, are nothing to write home about.  Bucky’s getting there, but he’s always been a bit more wiry, built for speed rather than strength. 

Steve puts his hands round Sam’s shoulders and pulls him over.  “Sam this is Bucky,” he says smiling like he’d just won the lottery or something.  God damn that smile.

“Oh,” Sam nods, knowing smile playing on his lips.  “ _This_ is Bucky.  Hey Bucky,” he says, holding out his hand for Bucky to take.  His handshake is firm, but not in an asshole try-hard kind of way.

“Nice to meet you, Sam?”

“You too.  Nice place you got here.  Yours, right?”

Bucky can’t help but smile.  He always likes it when people compliment his shop.  “Yeah, it’s all mine.  Took a couple of years to get going properly, but I’m pretty proud to say it’s thriving now.”

“I’ll say,” Steve chips in.  “He’s even had me working in here today.”

Sam looks at Bucky.  “You?  Had him working.  Man, I’ve been trying to get this guy a proper job for months now.  What’s your secret?”

“Good coffee.  Oh, and my sparkling wit and intellect.”  Bucky can’t help but think on the ‘proper job’ line, but thinks that maybe Sam’s just having fun.  Steve never seems short of money, so whatever he does, the pay must be decent.

Sam laughs.  “Oh yeah, I can see why he comes here all the time.”  Bucky looks at Steve, sees Steve give Sam the narrow eyes which, in universal friend language, usually means ‘shut up.’

“Well anyway,” Sam continues, “Now that I know where Steve’s been hiding himself, I’ll come in here more often.”

Bucky smiles, then grimaces as his stomach makes a terrible gurgling noise and he realises he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.  Oh god, the embarrassment.

“Sounds like someone’s hungry,” Steve says.  “You got anything in here for lunch?”

Bucky shakes his head.  “Nah, didn’t have time this morning.”

Steve sighs and rolls his eyes.  “You literally live above the bookstore.”

“Yeah, well, I was planning on grabbing a sandwich from the deli or something.”

“Do you want me to get something?  I have to talk business with Sam here, so I can go across the street.” Steve says, and suddenly his stomach rumbles too.  “See, I’m starving.”

“Well,” Bucky starts, “You don’t get to be that big and strong by skipping lunch, right?”

Sam laughs.  “He’s got you there.  This guy’s metabolism is insane.  He’s always gotta eat.”

Steve looks at Bucky, that little embarrassed smile that totally isn’t cute playing on his lips.  “You gonna be ok here?  You may get a customer to take you away from guard duty.”

“I doubt he’ll come in now but if he does, I’ll yell.  Get me a pastrami on rye, ok?  And nice to meet you Sam.”

“Good to meet you Bucky.”

They leave with a jangling of the shop door, and Bucky’s stomach rumbles some more.  Sam seemed nice, and it was good to meet some of Steve’s friends, if only for him to reassure himself that if they’re not assholes, Steve can’t be one either. 

Steve returns in about 15 minutes with the sandwiches and two bottles of iced tea.  Bucky grabs at his ravenously and starts stuffing it into his mouth, groaning as he does so.  He stops to see Steve staring at him incredulously.

“Well if I’d have known you were that hungry, I’d have gone sooner, Buck.  You’re like a man who hasn’t eaten for weeks.”

“Says the guy who’s already finished his sandwich and I know for a fact has another one in that bag.”

Steve laughs, and Bucky’s stomach does a curious little flip.  It’s been doing that lately, around Steve.  Steve and his hot body and nice friends.  Steve who’ll help Bucky out at a moment’s notice, no matter how hair-brained the scheme.  Steve the talented artist, a sarcastic shit and a Greek god all rolled into one.

Bucky stops eating his sandwich, suddenly overcome.  _Shit_ his brain thinks, _I really like the guy_. The voices in his brain seem to be evenly split between telling him to be cautious and telling him to _just fucking get on with it_.  He looks up to find Steve staring at him, somehow inexplicably closer.  Bucky doesn’t quite know what to do, so he just looks down at his sandwich again.

Before he can look up again the door jangles, and Bucky jumps backwards, whatever forces compelling him forward having been scared away.

 Well _shit_.

 

***

Another week goes by. Another week of spending time with Steve, and thinking about Steve, and dreaming about Steve.  _Just that one time_ , the now lone dissenting voice in his brain supplies.  The final two SR Grants had been signed and sold quickly, but Bucky finds that he has other things on his mind right now.

The thing is, whatever small hope Bucky had of being good at relationships had been snuffed out long ago by a total asshole called Pierce.  Someone who fucked with his head so badly, he managed to undo most of the therapy he’d previously had after the army.  He had found the strength to get out—rather, Natasha had helped him find the strength to get out and he swears her and Clint helping him out on Saturdays is just their way of checking he’s doing ok.  Even though it’s been nearly 4 years, a guy like Pierce definitely leaves scars that take a long time to heal.

Which is why it’s strange with Steve.  They have their moments; little looks, little touches now and again.  Bucky’s never been a very tactile person, but he allows Steve to break down those barriers one lingering look, and one sarcastic comment at a time.

He busies himself by looking at his laptop, detailing his inventory and looking up what he can expect in tomorrow’s delivery.  A few new poetry volumes, some of those classic Penguin books that are beautifully bound in hard back and may not even make their way to the shelves, a new Marian Keyes (dear lord) and the latest SR Grant.

“Aha!” Bucky exclaims, just as Steve walks through the door.

“Aha!” Steve echoes and rounds the counter.  “What’s on the menu today, Buck?”  He takes the laptop off him, staring at the screen.  He bites his lip, which Bucky thinks is totally not cute, and coughs.  “Ah…the new Marian Keyes.  I knew you were an old romantic at heart.”

Bucky snatches the laptop back.  “Shut up.  No, look.  The new SR Grant is in tomorrow, which means we have another chance of catching him in the act.”

“Give it up, Buck.  He’s obviously too wily for you.  You’ll never catch him.”  There’s a slightly serious tone to Steve’s voice, despite his jokey demeanour.

“He’s not and I will,” Bucky replies.  “I’ll put them out on Tuesday, but I’ll put them in the window.  All of them.  Anyone who wants one will have to ask.”  He taps the side of his head.  “See.  Genius.”

“Ok, Mr Genius.  Look, I have a serious question to ask you.” 

Bucky is about to reply something with something light-hearted, but the apprehensive look on Steve’s face gives him pause.  Suddenly he’s worried, and he can feel his heart beat speeding up in his chest.  He fiddles with the laptop in an attempt to get his hands to do something other than clench and unclench.  “What’s that, Steve?”

Steve takes in a breath.  “I wanted to know, if you want to come to the movies with me, tomorrow afternoon.  There’s like, this matinee showing of ‘Metopolis’ and a couple of other films, and I really wanted to see it.  With you.  I know, I know it’s Tuesday and you have a delivery and stuff so I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but I just…”

Bucky stares at Steve for a split second, who’s looking down at the floor while his foot plays with something invisible.  He’s nervous, something that Bucky has never seen before in the weeks he’s known Steve.  Before he knows what he’s doing, his mouth is saying, “As in…as in a date?”

Steve huffs out a breath.  “Yeah, as in a date.  If you want.”

Bucky nods, his stomach is doing flip flops at this moment.  “I’ll need to check if Nat or Clint can cover tomorrow but…yeah Steve.  I’d really like to go on a date with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Steve lets out a nervous laugh, and looks up, relief and joy etched on his face.

Things feel a bit awkward, and Bucky feels he needs to break the tension.  “You have to promise me one thing though.”

“Okay.  What’s that?”

“No mushy stuff.”

Steve laughs loudly and that’s it, tension broken.  Steve leaves his number—Bucky can’t understand why he never got it before, but then, Steve spends so much time in the shop he supposes he’s never needed it.  Bucky promises to text if he can’t get cover, but knowing Nat and Clint , if he tells them he has a date, they’ll agree immediately.

 

***

_God_ , Bucky thinks as he looks in the mirror for the umpteenth time.  This is _exhausting_.  He’s tried on about three different outfits, and he’s lost the ability to tell what’s good and what isn’t any more.  He hears Nat walking up the stairs to his apartment, and he throws open the door dramatically.  “I’m having a nightmare!”

Nat: beautiful, practical, could-kill-you-in-the-blink-of-an-eye Nat, stares at him.  “Black jeans.”  She says immediately.  “And the red Henley.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.  The Henley will show off your frame, while the jeans are skinny enough to show Steve what to look forward too.”

Bucky honest-to-god blushes at that.  “Nat…shut up.  I’m not the type of guy to put out on a first date.”

Nat holds out her hand, ticking off the fingers one by one.  “Ok one, you’ve been fawning over Steve for months so I’d say this definitely wasn’t a first date.  Two, I’ve seen you put out on waaay less than that and three,” she suddenly looks very sincere, “I think he could be really good for you.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”  Bucky smiles to himself, then snaps his head up, eyes wide.  “Oh god, are we…are we having a moment?”

Nat looks aghast.  “Shit.  We’re having a moment.”

They both shake themselves and laugh.  “Enjoy yourself, James,” Nat says, and punches him on the arm.

“Thanks, Nat.”  Bucky goes to exit the apartment, and as he does, Nat gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.  He’s thankful that despite life throwing some shit his way, he has some good friends.

 

He meets Steve at the movie theatre.  Or at least, he thinks it’s Steve.  He’s so blinded by the man’s beauty he can’t even sure.  Even his own thoughts are betraying him now.

Steve’s wearing a simple grey top – the same one, Bucky notes, that he wore when they first met.  The one that frames his torso perfectly.  Blue jeans complete the look, not too tight, but not so loose as to conceal his fabulous ass.  He acts like a perfect gentleman, buying the tickets, drinks and popcorn and insisting that Bucky’s doing him a favour just by being there.

Steve directs them to the back row.  “Here?  Really?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow.

“What sort of movie date cliché do you think I am?”  Steve asks. 

“An enormous one,” Bucky says as he sits down, and smiles when he hears Steve chuckle.

The movie starts, and he can already feel Steve’s heat from beside him.  It’s warm and comforting, something that Bucky, now he has the freedom to think about such things, wants to burrow down into.  He feels an arm creep around his shoulders, and is about to call Steve out for being too mushy when a wet finger pokes into his ear. Bucky jumps.

“You’re a child, Rogers.”  He hisses. “A _child_.”

Steve giggles, but doesn’t pull his hand away.  Instead he rests it on Bucky’s shoulder and they stay like that for the majority of Metropolis, as well as the movie that comes after it.  Bucky is enjoying the movie marathon, but he figures he is enjoying Steve’s company and closeness even more.  He burrows into Steve’s armpit for the third and final movie, and when he glances up about halfway in, Steve is staring at him, smiling.

The flip flop feeling in his stomach returns, and cliché of all clichés, Bucky can feel his heart speeding up.  Throwing all caution to the wind, he leans up, capturing Steve’s lips in a kiss.  It’s chaste, no more than a touching of mouths, and when he pulls away, he sees that Steve’s attention is solely on him, the movie almost forgotten.  Steve then leans in again, and his time the kiss is anything but chaste.  Bucky opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, putting his hand at the back of Steve’s head to pull him in closer.  The soft feel of his lips, the insistent tongue exploring every part of his mouth and making him tingle, the hands doing nothing more than holding his head softly, not guiding him but grounding him.

They pull apart, reluctantly, when the end credits roll.  Bucky is a little dismayed to find he’s somehow clambered over the seat and into Steve’s lap.  His red Henley has ridden up, and when he pulls away from Steve, he can see in the gloom of the theatre that Steve’s in a similar ruffled state.  The lights come on, and Bucky can’t help but laugh at Steve’s unkempt appearance kiss-swollen lips, rosy cheeks and heavily-lidded eyes.  He’s never looked more gorgeous.

“Think we got carried away there,” Steve says, his voice slightly hoarse.

“Think so too.  Can’t say I mind though.”

Steve smiles.  “Me neither.  Do you wanna…I have some food and stuff back at my place if you want to…I mean there’s no obligation or anything but if you wanted too…”

As cute as a flustered Steve is, the little noise he makes when Bucky shuts him up with another kiss is even cuter.  “Sounds great.  I just gotta check everything at the store’s ok, and then I’m all yours.”

“Awesome,” Steve says, then kisses him again.  Bucky decides he could get used to being able to kiss Steve when he wants.  It’s nice.

They adjust their clothing so they’re decent, and walk to Steve’s car.  The drive to the store is short, but every now and again Steve’s eyes wander from the road to Bucky, catching his eye and smiling.  Bucky smiles too and for the first time in a long time, he actually feels excited about a relationship.  It’s a good feeling.

Steve drops Bucky off outside and Bucky goes into the store.  Nat and Clint have left it pristine, obviously, and have even left the new delivery (late, Bucky thinks, but can’t be bothered to care) on the counter.  It’s been opened and checked, and Bucky can’t help but take a peek inside because godammit he does love new books.

The hardbacks are all there, as are the Marian Keyes.  He pulls out an SR Grant, hardback, brand new and feeling a bit heavier than his usual books.  He smiles, thinking how these books of questionable merit were actually one of the reasons he’s about to get lucky with a guy he really likes.  He opens it to check the title page, just to see if it hasn’t been signed, and stops dead.

The smile he had been wearing since the movie theatre falls off his face in an instant.

At the front of the book is a dedication.  SR Grant’s books are always dedicated to someone, or the memory of someone; most books are.  But this is different, this one makes Bucky’s hands shake.

_“For Bucky.  This charade, much like my prose, has gone on far too long.  Thank you for inspiring me, Steve.”_

Trembling, Bucky flips to the back of the book, to the inside of the dust jacket.  There’s the usual black and white photograph of SR Grant but this time, it’s of his face.  Steve’s face.  Steve’s face, smiling out from the photo at him.  Mocking him.  All this time.  Steve’s face.

With perfect timing, Steve enters the store.  Bucky’s head snaps up to see him smiling.  In a split second, Steve sees what Bucky is holding, and at least has the decency to look horrified.

“Buck…” he begins, but Bucky cuts him off.

“You,” he says, his breaths ragged, heart in his chest beating off the scale.  “It was you, all along.”

“Buck please…”

“When were you going to tell me?”  Buckys not even sure how he’s managing to breathe right now.

“So many times. So many times.  But tonight… it was my last chance.”

“Were you gonna do it after you fucked me?  Or just before?”  Bucky spat.  “Because you didn’t need all those weeks of foreplay Steve, you coulda fucked me the first day we met and have done with it.”

Steve looks hurt.  “It wasn’t like that,” he says.  “It wasn’t like that at all.  Please let me explain.”

All the anger and hurt hits Bucky at once, and he is blindsided by it.  “Yeah, I’ll let you explain,” he says, surprised how he can keep his voice so even when he just wants to scream.  “I’ll let you explain how you led a poor, fucking excuse for a man on for weeks, how you lied to him and mocked him on a _daily_ basis.  I mean, what kind of a man are you, Grant?” 

“It’s Steve,” Steve answers quietly.  “It’s always been Steve.”

“No, no, it’s fucking SR Grant—it says it right here on the cover. What kind of egotistical, arrogant, shell of a man does that to someone? Huh?”  Bucky rubs a hand across his face.  “What an idiot I am.  I thought you were different when actually, you’re so much worse.  After all that Pierce did to me, after all of that…he never…”

“Bucky please sit down, you’re shaking.”

“Fuck you.”  He doesn’t need to be told what to do by this man.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Steve continues.  “It started off as a one-time joke, and then I realised I liked you.  Like, really liked you, so I carried on because it gave you something else to focus on, but then I realised I needed to tell you and I didn’t know how because it had gone on for so long, so I put it in the book.  I hoped by the time it came out, I would have had the guts to tell you how I feel.  Because honestly Bucky, I’ve never felt…”

“Don’t fucking say it!” Bucky was practically screaming now.  “Don’t you fucking dare!”  He throws the book across the room.  It hits a shelf and books on it come tumbling to the floor.

Steve doesn’t do anything; he just stands there looking lost.  Bucky takes a deep breath, adrenaline dissipating after the physical act of throwing the book.  “Get out,” he says, quietly, menacingly, without emotion.

“Bucky…”

“Get out.”  He turns away, waits for what seems like hours before he hears the familiar jangling of the door, every sound like a piece of ice embedding in his newly-thawed heart.  He calmly walks to the counter, puts his head against the cold wood, and cries.

He never did that with Pierce, at least.

 

***

The phone beeps again.  Bucky looks at the preview of the text and sees its Natasha, checking up on him. He doesn’t reply; Nat knows that he won’t, but it does mean he’ll have a visit from her later today.

It’s been a week since the incident with Steve.  No, with _SR Grant_ , and despite a flurry of texts initially seemingly begging for forgiveness (Bucky doesn’t really know; he deleted them without reading the whole thing), Steve has finally gotten the message.  He even tried to call once, which made Bucky throw his phone in the sink at watch it with horror as it rattled around before stopping.  In a fit of spite he’d blocked the number.  He can’t deal with it.  He can’t.

The worst part, other than the total feeling of hurt, betrayal and anger that someone he liked so much was mocking him all this time, the worst part is having to sell SR Grant’s books with a smile to paying customers.  To hear them wonder why these editions have not been signed, when all the rest they’d bought from this particular store had been.

Each book feels like a lump of molten metal in his hand as he hands them over, trying to plaster on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He knows he’ll get over it—he’s done it before, and Bucky Barnes is nothing if not resilient.  It’s just that sometimes, sometimes when he’s alone in his apartment, his heart takes over and he thinks about what could have happened.  How good it could have been. But then, he’s always thought that romance was a fantasy, and this last week has been living proof.

Bucky absent-mindedly checks through the delivery list for next week, then is scrolling back and forth through his inventory while not really paying attention to anything in particular.  He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a grunt, and when he looks up, he sees Steve’s friend Sam standing in front of him.

“Can I help you?” Bucky says, because he’s nothing if not professional.

Sam looks serious, far from the smiling guy he met a few weeks ago.  “We need to talk about Steve,” he says seriously.

“I don’t think we do,” Bucky replies, trying to keep his voice light.  “We did all of our talking a week ago and I think I made myself quite clear.”

“Bucky…”

“No, no.  If he wants to go over this again he can put it in one of his mediocre novels. That I won’t read.”

“That’s unfair.”

Bucky rolls eyes.  “And god forbid I would be unfair to the man who took me for a ride and laughed about it behind my back.”

Sam sighs.  “He never laughed at you. Not once.  Look Bucky please, just hear me out.  Steve is…I’ve never seen him like this.  He’s broken.”

 “ _He’s_ broken?”  Bucky shouts, then realises where he is as some customers turn to stare at him.  “He’s broken?” he says, quieter this time, “How the hell do you think I feel?”

“I can’t imagine, man. Look, take it from someone who’s known Steve for years.  I have never seen the guy as cut up as he is.  He won’t eat; he barely sleeps, he’s…he loves you Bucky.  I’m sure of it.  He really loves you.”

“Loves me enough to lie to me.”  Bucky waves his hands, as if wafting an unpleasant smell away. “Those are hollow words, Sam.  They mean nothing.”

“Look, I can’t ask you to forgive him, ok?  He shoulda…well we all know he shoulda told you sooner but Steve…he gets caught up in the moment.  He was so happy, seriously.  His books…the last two had taken a dip in terms of quality because he was just lacking inspiration, but you…he met you and suddenly it was like he’d found his mojo again.  Have you read his latest?”

Bucky snorts.  “No,” he says flatly.

“Just read it,” Sam pleads, and the man looks so sincere Bucky is almost tempted.

“Why?”

“Because from what Steve tells me, you deserve to be happy.  And Steve can make you happy Bucky, I know he can.  He messed up.  He totally messed up and he knows it.  Just please…give him a chance.”

Bucky takes a deep breath.  “If you’re not going to buy anything, I think you should leave now.”

Sam sighs, defeated.  “At least,” he says , “If I can’t convince you, at least let Steve try.  You don’t have to read all of it, just page 477.”  Sam drops the book onto the counter.  It hits it with a heavy thud, and Bucky watches as the man walks out of the shop.  He stares at the book for a few moments before pushing it away.

A couple of hours later, the shop is quiet so Bucky decides to break for lunch.  He sits with his feet up against the counter, munching on a pastrami and rye sandwich that he made himself, one that doesn’t quite live up to the deli’s standards. He spies the SR Grant book out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment, curiosity gets the better of him.

He picks it up, eyes the dedication and starts leafing through the pages.  He notices his hands are shaking slightly as he does so, and he wonders what the hell this guy did to get under his skin in such a short amount of time.  His heart seems speed up as he turns the pages, 469, 471, 473, 475…

There.  Page 477.

The page is pure dialogue between two people, Steve and James (points for subtlety there, Steve), and Bucky recognises it as an exact rendering of the second time they met, when Steve came to pick up his sci-fi novel order.  The supposedly fictional encounter though, has one crucial difference. 

The proximity between the two characters is a lot closer, with long, winding paragraphs in typical SR Grant prose describing James’ eyes, how they look sad.  How Steve’s heart aches for him, how he’s been longing for him all this time.  James is talking about romance, how it’s all a fantasy.  How it just doesn’t happen for people like him.  Book Steve replies:  “But it could be, for us.  And I want to try.  Because I’ve realised that my love for you is more than just some mediocre fairy tale.  I love you, James.  I love you.”

And after that sentence, in black ink, there is an annotation mark, a star.  Bucky automatically looks to the bottom of the page and recognises SR Grant—Steve’s—handwriting.  A looping scrawl, much like his signature, but clear as anything: 

“What I am now, my writing, everything, is nothing without you.  It might sound cliché, but you permeate every page.  Please, give me one last chance.  Meet me for coffee, 3pm today, at Belle’s.  Please?”

Bucky sits there, torn between snapping the book shut and throwing it in the trash, and wanting to cry.  He settles for sitting there, dumbfounded.  Two customers come in, choose books, pay and exit the store before he again looks at the message.  “Meet me for coffee, 3pm today, at Belle’s.  Please?”

And the tiny voice inside his head, the one lone dissenting voice that started this whole thing all those months ago said _just go.  Give him a chance_.  Despite himself, despite the last week when he just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear, he wants to give Steve that chance.

He checks his watch – it’s 2.30pm, which gives him enough time to close up early.  He feels a bit shaky as he fumbles with the lock on the shop door, pulling his hoody around his shoulders as he feels rain start to fall.  He goes to cross the street to the coffee shop, thinks again, and walks back. He does this a few times, each time going a few steps further before hesitating and going back.

Gritting his teeth, he tries it again, because if nothing else, at least he will get some closure.  He can draw a line under the whole sorry spectacle.  He can find out why Steve singled him out.

 

He walks to Belle’s and opens the door.  Looking around, his heart is practically in his mouth when he sees Steve sitting in a booth.  Or, a sad reflection of Steve.  His shoulders are slumped, his head is lowered, and he’s slowly stirring a coffee, watching the liquid swirl around the cup.

Bucky walks over to him.  “You look like shit,” is the first words he says.  And it’s true, Steve does.

Steve’s head snaps up, and Bucky can see that he hasn’t shaved recently.  “Bucky,” he exclaims, and just the mere mention of his name from that mouth makes Bucky want to cry. “You came.  I’m so glad you came.”

Bucky slides in to the booth, “I did.”  He waves to the waitress to order coffee, and they sit in silence until it arrives.  Once it does, Bucky takes a sip to calm his nerves.  “Ok,” he says.  “You wanted to talk.  So talk.”

“I just,” Steve begins.  “I just wanted to…” he hesitates.  “God this is hard.  I had it all planned out, but one look at you and…”

Bucky nods, not saying anything.  Steve clears his throat and continues.  “I’m really glad you came.  You have no idea.  I just, I wanted to explain everything, and I’d hoped you’d hear me out.  Even…even if afterwards you still don’t want anything to do with me then I’ll accept that, I will...  I just want to set things right.”

“I’m listening.”

Steve takes a sip of his coffee, stares into the half-empty cup and begins.  “So my writing…when I was younger we didn’t have much.  It was just me, and mom, and that was it.  But I found that I was good at two things, art and writing.  Well, you might say just the art but…” he smiles weakly, “I started to sell short stories will illustrations, and found that people liked them.  Magazines would buy them, for fairly decent money.  It helped get me through University, and by the time I’d finished, I’d progressed to writing longer stories which I sent to a publisher.  They were interested in them, and they signed me up which honestly, was the greatest thing in the world.  But after three novels…I just lost it.  I had no inspiration, nothing.  I was just rehashing the same tired old clichés, padding out the prose to fill a novel.  You were right, Bucky. I was trying too hard to emulate other writers instead of figuring out what was going wrong.”

Steve takes another sip of his coffee, and Bucky can’t help but notice that his shoulders are straighter, like each word removes a weight on them.  Steve continues.  “So I moved back to Brooklyn, and the day I came into your shop was the day I’d finished what I thought was my last book.  And it was terrible.  And I didn’t care.  So when I was looking for your sci-fi section and found my own books, I signed them.  Because I figured _what the hell_ , there won’t be any more after that one, so why not?  Maybe give someone a nice surprise.”

Bucky can understand only too well the thought of being a failure.  When he’d finally quit the army and had all that residual shit to deal with, he’d felt like he’d failed at everything.  The whole thing with Pierce confirmed that.  But still, there’s a question he has to ask.  “Why carry on?” He says.  “Why keep on doing it, not telling me?  We even staked out the place for a whole day, and you were right beside me the whole time.”

Steve looks up at him then, blue, blue eyes large and wet at the corners.  “Because I met you.  I met you, and I knew there was something about you.  I wanted to get to know you.  And the more I did, the more I found excuses to carry on the charade.  I really liked you, and any chance I could get to spend more time with you I would, even if it was based on a lie.  I was an idiot, yes.  Total idiot.  But an idiot because I…I’d fallen in love with you.  And I didn’t want to ruin it.  But I ruined it anyway.”

Bucky widens his eyes in surprise.  “You…you loved me?”

Steve looks him directly in the eyes, mouth set in a determined line.  “Love you.  I love you.  It’s been nearly nine months since we met and I can say they have been the best nine months in my life.”

“What…”  For a moment, Bucky is dumbfounded.  He’d heard the words before, sure, from people trying to take things from him, people with ulterior motives.  But the way Steve says them, with utter conviction… he’s not experienced that before.  Only in novels, he thinks, rather bitterly.

Steve interrupts his thoughts.  “You deserve to hear all of it.  So…so I said my writing had gotten stale.  But then I met you, and it was like someone had breathed life into it again.  I had all these new ideas that I had to get down on paper.  And some of those turned into my newest book, but I knew in the meantime I needed to end the whole SR Grant charade.  I was going to tell you…I was.  But I left it too late because I was afraid at what might happen, because I’d let it go on too long.  And then the worst happened, and I hurt you.  I can’t forgive myself for that.”

They sit there for a moment, the only sounds were Steve’s heavy breathing and the thump thump of Bucky’s heartbeat.  Here is a man owning up to his mistakes, telling him sorry, and not expecting anything from Bucky.  The walls Bucky had carefully built up, that he always builds up, seem more fragile than ever.  And Bucky realises in that moment, that cliché of all clichés, it’s up to him to decide whether to knock them down. 

Again, the tiny, annoying voice inside his head is telling him to take a chance.  Joined by other voices, a cast of thousands, pushing him forwards.  Because they, like him, know that from past experience, if you cocoon yourself away for fear of getting hurt, you never really live at all.

He takes a deep breath.  He feels slightly hot, slightly nauseous.  “The thing about forgiveness,” he says slowly, “is that it’s never given freely.  It has to be earned.”

“I know,” Steve says, emotionless, staring into his own empty coffee cup.

“But that doesn’t mean it’ll never come.”  Steve looks up at that, and Bucky’s heart gives a twinge when he recognises hope in his eyes.

“So you…”

“It’s difficult for me.  You know my past.  It’s difficult, but then life isn’t supposed to be easy.  I guess what I’m saying is…I’m gonna give you a chance, Steve.  Because these past few months have been some of the best I’d ever had, and that’s down to you.  Well, to me too, but to you.  So I want to try, with you.  Because I’ve realised that this more than just some mediocre fairy tale.”

Steve takes in a deep breath and is about to say something before he stops.  He quirks an eyebrow.  “Are you…quoting my own dialogue back at me?”

Bucky smiles.  “Yup.”

“You cheeky…” but before he can finish the sentence Bucky leans over and plants a kiss on his lips.  “Yes,” he says.  “I want to try.”

They’re both smiling now; Bucky can feel a surge of happiness throughout this whole body.  The slight apprehension is still there—he would be a fool if it wasn’t, but he feels lighter, happier than he has been in the past week.  He knows he’s made the right decision.

“I gotta get back to the store,” he says when they pull apart, “But I was thinking.  If you want to join me for pizza later, you know where I am.”

Steve smiles, bright and beautiful. “I would like that Buck, I would like that a lot.”

He kisses Steve goodbye, and walks back to the store.  Later, there’s pizza and more talk, and falling asleep on the couch in each other’s arms.  Happy.

 

***

Their 12 month anniversary is perfect.  Bucky had been wined and dined, and then more wined, and then taken back to his apartment where they spend the rest of the evening in bed taking each other apart, slowly.  Because like Bucky suspected, Steve is amazing in the bedroom, walnut-cracking ass and everything.  Better than anonymous hook ups, or crappy romance novels.  Better than anything Bucky could have imagined.  It had taken him a few months to say ‘I love you’ back to Steve, but now that dam had broken, he can’t stop saying it.  He tells him every day.  It feels good.  Normal.

The next morning, Steve leaves for a meeting with his publisher—the books are selling great, and he has another one in the works.  He wasn’t lying when he said that Bucky was an inspiration; the man’s like Mills & Boon now, churning them out one by one.  Bucky sits in his store, smiling at the note Steve left saying he’d be back at lunchtime with pastrami on rye, complete with a sketch of two people doing something very rude in the back room.  Even this is beautifully rendered.

The man is certainly an artist, in more ways than one.

Bucky wanders around his store, doing the usual rounds of tidying before opening the doors.  He notes the latest SR Grant novel, out less than a week ago, which he had put in the non-fiction section because he thought it was funny.  He smiles as he picks it up, turning the pages.  His eyes stop on the title page. 

There, in black, looping scrawl, are the words, “Enjoy.  SR Grant.”

“You fucker,” he laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes my own.


End file.
